“The most common form of despair is not being who you are.” ~Søren Kierkegaard
A few years ago, over coffee, I met an old friend I’ll call Ray, a trusted mentor. A few years older than me, silver-haired and down-to-earth, the kind of person who listens wholeheartedly.
We were at a small cafe near my house. I told him about my first year as a principal, how I went from being a consultant whose identity was built on listening and building relationships to suddenly managing budgets, writing evaluations, and holding people accountable.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said, “and I feel like I’m bothering people every time I ask for help.”
Ray nodded slowly. “Sounds tough,” he said. “It’s understandable that you’re struggling with the transition.”
I continued, supplemented the list, built my case. “And the criticism I get doesn’t help,” I said. “People say I’m too nice, that I’m not strong enough in politics, that I don’t hold the boundaries firmly enough. But they also want freedom.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” I told him.
He let me finish. Then he leaned forward a little. “Can I tell you something I noticed?”
“Of course,” I said.
“He sees himself as a victim,” she said. “It’s like life just happens to you and you’re waiting for it to stop.”
I sat there for a moment, hoping he would offer some advice.
But I knew Ray better than that. He always gave you the truth as he saw it, and then trusted you to find your own way.
I went home with a headache. I told myself that it wasn’t fair, that Ray hadn’t heard everything, that I had a reason to feel this way. But the word he used somehow got into the car with me.
It was still there when I tried to sleep. It was still there at two in the morning when I was staring at the ceiling.
Sacrifice.
I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t put it down.
I turned the word over in my head the way you turn a stone in your hand, looking at it from every angle. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I started to see some truth in it.
I held grudges that I never voiced. The feeling of being hurt silently built up inside me without ever saying a word or trying to change things. It has a name, and that name, as much as it stung, was the one Ray gave me.
I had an image in my head as I lay there in the dark. I saw myself wearing a wooden sign around my neck, the kind you see in an old photograph, hung there like a tag.
And on the board was the word “Sacrifice.”
The hardest part was knowing that no one else was punishing me. Part of me decided to wear it. This image stayed with me and changed something.
I started asking myself a question that seemed more helpful than self-pity. If “sacrifice” was the word I didn’t want to take with me, what word did I want? What would it be like to stand in the opposite position?
I ran across different words. Hero, winner, agent, creator, survivor, overcomer. They all had something to teach me, but none of them were what I needed.
Then a word began to rise from the depths. Of all the words that could have been, this one caught me by surprise. The word that came to mind was ‘Steward’.
I looked it up that night and the word “steward” has been around for a long time. At its root, it meant the guardian of the house, someone trusted to look after what belonged to a larger story than his own.
I wasn’t looking for that word, and maybe that’s why it felt so significant. I found myself asking why it came to the surface when he showed me what he wanted me to understand. It felt less like what I thought and more like something I got.
I learned that a steward is someone who takes care of what they’ve been given, is intentionally present, and recognizes that what they’ve been given, including the hard parts, is worth taking care of.
It wasn’t exactly the opposite of victim, but in my case it was the antidote. A victim is defined by what has been done to them. A steward is defined by what is chosen with him.
Now, years later, the challenges of leadership are still here. I still struggle with criticism, especially when I feel like I’m already at my best. But what is different now is the perspective.
A few weeks ago, one of my most powerful colleagues asked for a formal meeting. He sat down across my desk, deliberate and direct, and told me that the flexibility I give others makes his job more difficult.
“When people don’t follow through on the work and there are no consequences, the people doing the work bear more than their fair share,” he said. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
I already formatted my answer inside. I wanted to tell him that I was trying to relieve the pressure people were feeling, seeing how tense everyone was and trying to breathe for them.
That was accurate, but the victim also spoke, saying, “What about me?” The steward does not protect himself from harsh feedback. The steward strives for what he got, and what I got at that moment was the truth.
The victim in me wanted to be understood. The steward in me knew that I served something greater than my own comfort. The class was mine to care for, not to hide behind.
“You’re right,” I said. “And I’m grateful that he came directly to me.” I told him that I was working to have clearer boundaries, that his feedback would help with that, and that people who excel at their jobs deserve a manager who upholds that standard.
Moving from victim to steward is an ongoing process. I haven’t perfected it, and I don’t hope to. I still stumble, I still feel the sign back on my neck and I have to find my way back.
I used to experience the difficulties of leadership as something that happened to me, as if the pressure and criticism were proof that I didn’t belong. What changed was the realization that this period of my life was asking something of me, not punishing me. I was called into service whether I felt ready or not.
Ever since that night, I’ve been thinking a lot about stewardship. About what it means to stop surviving my life and start dealing with it. These are two very different relationships with the same experience.
That night at the coffee shop, Ray knows him well enough to tell an uncomfortable truth. He was not gentle with her. But we don’t always need gentleness.
Sometimes we need a sign around our neck that someone is close enough to see.
I don’t wear that sign anymore, or at least I try not to. On days when I feel it return to my neck, I remember the word that replaced it.
Steward.
Someone who strives for what he’s got. Someone who asks what life has in store for them, listens and answers the call.
This is the person I want to be.
About Daniel H. Shapiro
Dr. Daniel H. Shapiro is the keynote speaker, workshop leader and mentor. He is passionate about human relationships and the stories we carry with us. For more information about her book 5 Practices of a Caring Mentor or her mentoring and speaking services, see: www.yourinherentgoodness.com.
